


Tuxedo Classic Dance Party

by Blake



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Aquarius Harry, Car Sex, Closets, Daddy Louis, Dancer Louis, Drag, Famous/Non-Famous Au, Harry has a fake boyfriend, Harry in a Dress, Kitchen Sex, Lady Gaga jokes, M/M, Non-traditional lube, Sequel, Smoking, Songwriter Louis, Topping from the Bottom, West Hollywood, alleyway blowjob Liam, but yes, even though he's out of the closet, niall is there too, open houses, or extra traditional lube?, past zouis, side Ziam, ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 13:24:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18074222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Instead of flying out to meet his touring boyfriend in Madrid, Louis sticks around to be responsible and do things like dance at Lady Gaga night at the gay cowboy club in West Hollywood. It goes better than you might expect.





	Tuxedo Classic Dance Party

**Author's Note:**

> This is a pisces birthday gift both for [@jlf23tumble](https://jlf23tumble.tumblr.com), (whose birthday is today!!!) and for [@thebestfansinhelp](https://thebestfansinhelp.tumblr.com) (who is also a pisces and who blessed me with this title that I drunkenly wrote down but don't remember the origin story of?), because they are both the biggest most wonderful fans of the original [Tuxedo Dress Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14290641) fic. You both are the best, mwah. Happy birthday!!
> 
> Since this present is _for_ my beta, I have Aiden, Toni, and Phoenix to thank for looking over it for me. Thank you for your help!
> 
> Readers, if you don't like discussions consensual contractural fake relationships, you can skip this one.

Louis pokes at a rogue cheese cube until it scoots neatly back into its rightful place amongst its cheddar brethren. He’s the one who poked at the cheese cube until it tumbled down from on top of the pile and into the Monterey jack cubes in the first place, but that doesn’t mean he should expect anything less than perfection from his cheese platters.

Not that anyone is even eating his snacks anyways. They’re all looking at the house. It’s a gorgeous house. Louis should be telling them about the solar panels and showing them the custom art deco tile in the bathroom.

Instead, he’s standing by the cheese, moping about his boyfriend being half a world away.

 _Wish you were here,_ he texts Harry, because he is a sap and Harry is like one of those tap things that people hammer into trees to bring out their sap.

Harry isn’t going to text back. Harry is probably in the middle of a concert.

 _Wish you were here_ , Harry texts back, because he is a sap and is also a stubborn ass who thinks it would be more fun for Louis to join him on a quaint, all-expenses-paid European concert tour than it would be for Harry to come to Louis’s open house, where there are Monterey jack and also cheddar cheese cubes.

 _Hey someone’s gotta bring home bacon_ , he sends. Then, _The bacon_ , when he realizes he forgot a word. It kind of messes with his comedic timing. It is comedy, though. His boyfriend could just buy this house out of pocket, and Louis is here pushing cheese cubes to get a commission on the sale.

_if i buy the house so you get paid does it count as you bringing home the bacon?_

Three new couples come in the door at that moment, so Louis pockets his phone and goes to greet them. One of the couples is a middle-aged lesbian couple, so he gives them a grand tour and loses track of time. He knows that if he was a really good realtor, he would be wooing the people who look like they have the most money to blow on a house, but he’s actually just a really gay realtor, so his favoritism looks a little different.

He shows them the leather-filled tv den and tells them he imagines it lined wall to wall with books, like a library, and that sends them spinning off around the room, whispering in the corner, stroking the real wood paneling. Louis takes the moment to slip out his phone and read.

_I’m sorry!! It was a joke but I shouldn’t joke._

_I really do support you working! Think it’s great_

_Sorry babe :(_

_Gotta go on now, talk to me after?_

Louis smiles to himself, shaking his head. Five minutes of radio silence and Harry’s convinced Louis is giving him the cold shoulder, instead of just busy doing his job. Louis’s not sure if it’s just Harry’s youth or his money that’s got him so out of touch, but either way, it’s charming and exasperating at the same time.

_Baby i thought it was funny i was just working!_

_Talk about insensitivity to the struggles of the working class…_

Louis flips his hair out of his eyes and looks down at what he just wrote. He clenches his teeth and types fast, just in case Harry checks his phone and sees it before he can add, _That was a joke btw!! Love you!_

The open house is just getting warmed up, so Louis has to excuse himself to the foyer to greet some more people and offer them cheese cubes of both the cheddar and Monterey jack variety. In between welcome speeches, he catches himself chewing on a toothpick, staring into space and imagining the smell of Harry’s breath when they kiss. It’s been six whole days. Louis misses him.

They’ve only been dating four months, but it’s hard to stick to a typical relationship timeline when your boyfriend tries to buy you a house before you even go on your first date, and when one of the hundred songs you’ve written together is in the works to become a hit single in a few weeks, and when your boyfriend sends cars to pick you up so you can sleep at his house every night, and when your boyfriend smells better than anything in the world and takes cock just as good as he gives it and begs really pretty and makes you omelets every morning and tells you you’re a genius ten times a day.

It makes Louis blush to remember that their tension over him continuing to work odd jobs is not some patronizing macho bullshit; it’s actually just rooted in his boyfriend’s certainty that Louis’s a musical genius destined to take over the charts and bring home millions of dollars of bacon. It’s flattering to have someone who’s made it in the business believe in you, but it’s utterly swoon-inducing to have someone you love look inside you and see the version of you that you barely allow yourself to hope to become.

But swooning or not, Louis’s not going to stop actively making money until he’s got college funds filled up for each and every one of his siblings. When his songs are making that kind of money, then he’ll burn his real estate license and permanently delete the Uber driver app from his phone.

Somebody actually comes over to eat a cheese cube, and Louis takes the opportunity to chat him up about ethically farmed dairy as a segue to the home’s solar panels, because isn’t sustainability great?

The guy looks at him like he’s got two heads, so Louis lets him wander off to drool over the leathery tv den or whatever. He opens his phone and reads the message on the lock screen.

_E 2 Brutus !!!_

Louis thinks that’s a little extreme, and also unusually spelled. Whatever it was he last said to Harry, he’s pretty sure that this is an over-reaction.

Then he notices that the message is not from _#1 most sexiest client_ with five banana emoji, which is what he had changed Harry’s contact name to on the morning after the night he officially ended their client-realtor relationship.

The message is from five little-green-fruit-that-isn’t-quite-a-lime emoji followed by a single peach emoji. Liam.

 _Is this about that knife i stabbed you in the back with? Was wondering when you’d notice_ , Louis responds, despite the fact that the three little blinking dots are indicating that Liam is already elaborating. When Louis’s message is delivered, Liam’s three dots disappear. Louis can just picture his scrunched, anxious-puppy face as he deletes his own words and tries to think of a clever response to Louis’s joke.

 _I think I’d notice that_ is what Liam comes up with.

Louis shows someone the custom art deco tile in the bathroom.

 _Practice tonite?????_ is the message he comes back to.

Oh. Right. Sunday.

 _Sorry babe,_ he says, because he is, actually, sorry. Not so much for fucking up the rehearsal of the amateur dance group he’s reluctantly danced with for the past year, but for fucking up Liam’s seduction plan. _Sure you don’t want me to just ask him for you?_ he tries, for the seven-hundredth time in two years.

_No!!!!_

Louis sighs. Sometimes, he thinks Liam is a completely lost cause. They’ve known each other since two years ago, when Liam moved into his apartment building. He was from the South or something, and he was the kind of guy who helped Louis bring his bags of groceries up the elevator and to his apartment and told him he should probably buy more vegetables if he was trying to build muscle mass, which Louis was not. Really, Louis had initially been worried that Liam was trying to hit on him, and he was in a dilemma about what to do because Liam was pretty hot but also incredibly dumb, and Louis didn’t like to think of himself as desperate.

But those fears evaporated the day that Liam was changing Louis’s light bulb for him and Zayn, Louis’s amicably-ex-boyfriend and current-sort-of-real-estate-boss, walked in.

Ever since then, Liam has been jumping through hoops trying to impress Zayn. It’s been a very confusing dance for Louis and Zayn, who is completely aware of it, to observe. First, it was plaid shirts and protein shakes and bearish scruff that just made him look like the sidekick from _Home Improvement_ reruns. Then it was this pseudo-suave, real-leather 80s new wave look that he abandoned as soon as the thermometer hit 90. For the last year, he’s been embracing this mesh, alleyway-blowjob look. One time when Zayn was over trying to teach Louis how to grill eggplant, Liam came out to the pool wearing nothing but _spandex mesh swim trunks_. Zayn appreciated the effort, he really did. More than Louis was comfortable with. But Zayn was also well-stocked on booty calls, and was in love with the idea of Liam jumping through hoops to woo him and therefore uneager to put Liam out of his misery.

“ _It’s cute_ ,” Zayn had told Louis over burning eggplant while Liam swam methodical laps in the pool.

At the time, Louis had just met his _#1 most sexiest client_ and therefore had very high standards for what was _cute_. Still, there must have been _something_ charming about Liam, because he still kept performing with his stupid amateur dance group. It was a dance group that performed almost exclusively at a single monthly diva-tribute event at a single gay club in West Hollywood. It was also a dance group run by a straight white girl from Michigan who felt comfortable lip-syncing to Nicki Minaj on stage. It was pretty mortifying, but Louis had gotten a couple of good phone numbers out of it.

But the phone numbers stopped being a motivating factor once he met Harry Styles, and without that motivation, Louis found it increasingly difficult to remember that he was supposed to practice for Posers night at Flaming Saddles just to breathe life into Liam’s mesh, alleyway-blowjob aesthetic.

A new couple enters the house. Louis shows them the fireplace and the skylights, and then gets back to his phone to write, _When’s the next practice?_

Liam writes back instantly. _Wednesday!! 5 hours before the show!!!_

Louis sighs. He _had_ been thinking about taking Harry up on his offer and flying out to Madrid to visit him during the week.

_It’s Lady Gaga ni_

_Night_

Liam’s strategic moves are pretty solid. Louis _loves_ Lady Gaga.

_What time?_

_1:00 you won't regret it!!!_

Louis eats a cube of Monterey jack. If he’s going to dance in West Hollywood in three days, he’s going to need all the energy he can get.

~~~ 

Five hours is really an excessive amount of rehearsal time when your routine consists of _the_ “Bad Romance” music video dance on repeat. Who _didn’t_ memorize the “Bad Romance” dance ten years ago?

Apparently, Liam, who is going over the steps by himself over and over, mumbling like a madman.

Louis focuses on getting his costume sorted. They’re all wearing variations of the same outfit: white long-sleeve crop tops with tan tights and white high-cut briefs. Except the briefs are very see-through and also built for different anatomy, so he and Liam are supposed to wear two pairs of briefs and something called a dance belt underneath to pad everything down. It all looks uncomfortably tight and revealing at the same time. The last time Louis tried a midriff look, he was wearing a bra and giving Harry a lap dance.

He’s going to need some drinks.

He sits on a stool by the bar, even though no one’s there to serve him yet. It’s a good vantage point to watch the other, luckier, less embarrassing dance groups practice their _original_ choreography to Lady Gaga songs. One group does “Edge of Glory”, making clever use of the railings of the club’s 2nd floor balcony. Another group does “John Wayne”, straddling and riding the balcony railing like the motorcycles from the video—or is it horses? Louis wonders if their dance poses some sort of crowd hazard or something, but applauds their choice to take advantage of the western aesthetic of the gay cowboy bar with their song choice and their pink cowboy hats.

He really wishes Harry would text him back. It’s been like, eight hours at least. And today is Harry’s day off, and they were supposed to be in Madrid together, but instead Louis is in peewee Gaga hell because he’s a good friend.

If only he at least knew what Harry was up to. He’d like to know if he was in his hotel room writing songs, if he was walking around the city trying to find all the farmer’s markets, or if he was crying in some cathedral somewhere about how beautiful it is, or if he slipped away to the coast to sunbathe on the Mediterranean. If Louis knew, then he could pretend that he was at a hotel or a farmer’s market or a cathedral or a beach right alongside him.

Giving into his worst urges, he opens up his phone and Googles his boyfriend’s name.

Apparently Harry Styles is out at a fancy dinner with his fake-boyfriend, Anton. Louis bites the inside of his cheek, trying to think of whether or not this makes him jealous. He actually has no problem at all with Anton. He’s a nice guy, as far as European DJs go, and his husband is a fucking brilliant footballer who’s just not quite ready to officially come out of the closet yet. Harry and Anton’s “relationship” is scheduled to end when Harry’s next song—Harry and Louis’s song—comes out in two months. The entertainment news coverage is anticipated to add extra layers of heartbreak to the song, and thus make it more commercially successful. Harry and Louis are still discussing what they’re going to do after that. As much as Louis wants the whole world to know that he’s dating the man of his dreams, it’s been kind of nice to be out of the press, aside from his occasional mentions as Harry’s “fashionable friend” and “rumored collaborator”.

Without Harry’s dinner dates with Anton, Louis might not be as free to wander about farmer’s markets and cathedrals and beaches with him without interruption.

But that’s all moot, because Louis is not at a farmer’s market or cathedral or beach. He’s at Posers night at Flaming Saddles in West Hollywood. He supposes he’s jealous of the dinner with Anton solely and exclusively for the reason that he wishes he could be anywhere with his boyfriend right now, even if it’s at a posh tapas bar where he would have to order ten menu items just to feel like he ate a meal.

Finally, someone gets him a gin and tonic.

After two of those, he feels ready to face his costume, though he keeps his track pants on over the three layers of glorified underwear. He comes back to the bar in a stretchy white crop top and adidas pants, slightly afraid that he’s pulling off Liam’s alleyway-blowjob aesthetic better than Liam ever has.

People start slowly filtering in around nine-thirty, but Louis’s group isn’t scheduled to embarrass themselves until half past eleven. Zayn arrives after ten, and Louis entertains himself with trying to facilitate conversation between his low-talking ex and anxious-rambling Liam.

“Zayn, remember that time you showed me how to grill eggplant? Ah, what a good time that was. Say, you like eggplant. Liam, aren’t you fond of eggplant as well?”

Zayn gives him a scathing look, like he thinks Louis is being mean. But how can it be mean when Liam looks so eager to tell Zayn—bony, vegetarian Zayn—how important vegetables are for building muscle mass? Louis shrugs and then nods sagely as Liam educates them. 

He sighs in relief when Lauren comes to get them for makeup. She’s the only person in the group that makes any sense, as evidenced by the fact that she disappeared for the past five hours because there were “too many penises” on the premises. She does Liam’s makeup for him while Louis does his own. “Anna’s in hysterics. Look up,” she says, lining Liam’s lower eyelid.

“We’ll be _fine_ ,” Louis sighs dismissively. Anna has nothing to worry about if all she needs is for people to have memorized the “Bad Romance” dance.

“No, she’s convinced she saw Harry Styles.”

Louis snorts, smudging a bare minimum of eyeshadow on. “Harry Styles is in Spain.”

“O…kay,” Lauren says. It definitely sounds judgmental. She definitely thinks that him knowing Harry Styles’ daily whereabouts is just as weird as Anna thinking she saw him at Flaming Saddles.

With great reluctance, Louis pulls off his pants, to the sound of whistling. Half of the whistling is coming from Anna, the straight white girl from Michigan who feels comfortable lip-syncing to Nicki Minaj and just _loves_ gay guys. For the first time in his life, Louis wishes “Bad Romance” were a shorter song.

Finally, they get started. It’s actually not so bad once the attention of the crowd is on them and Louis has an audience to make exaggerated faces at. The only way to salvage this performance from utter embarrassment is to make it camp.

But every hope he ever had of saving himself from embarrassment evaporates the instant he sees _Harry Styles_ standing on the second floor, leaning over the balcony railing, smiling at him.

Louis _loses track of the choreography_ , he’s so blinded by embarrassment. He’s really not sure if it’s the fact that his really hot boyfriend is watching him strut around a gay club in glorified tighty-whities, or if it’s the fact that his boyfriend is the lone island of grey, wool grandpa clothes in a sea of plaid and spandex, grinning like a fool and bobbing his head like “Bad Romance” is a pretty good tune.

God, Louis loves him.

Louis runs up the stairs as soon as the song is over, not even bothering to find his pants. “What are you doing here?” he asks, throwing his sweaty self into Harry’s arms. He feels and smells like heaven. Louis could kiss him, but he’s not sure if it’s a good place for it.

“I flew in, but you stopped texting. _And_ you weren’t at your apartment. So I asked Zayn.”

Zayn pops out of nowhere that instant just to “shout” in Louis’s ear, “I wanted to get you back after that mean eggplant joke.”

Louis squeezes Harry even tighter, desperately glad that he has good taste in men. “The man likes his veggies!”

Harry strokes up and down Louis’s spine, his rings getting caught in the midriff-hem of his crop top every time. “You look so hot,” Harry mumbles in his ear. Zayn departs with a wink and a childish poke of his tongue.

“And you…” Louis makes a show of dragging his eyes up and down Harry’s wool trousers, vest, and the little cap on his head. “Well you _feel_ amazing,” he says cheekily.

Harry adjusts his cap sheepishly. “Hey I needed to blend in.”

“You needed to blend in so you went to the gay club dressed like an old man who plays chess in the park?”

Harry slides his fingers up under the back of his crop top and just rests them there, knuckles to Louis’s spine. It’s nice. Louis tries not to swoon. “It worked at the airport. I went straight to your apartment, and then here.”

“Should’ve borrowed some of my clothes while you were there,” Louis suggests, smiling. His lips tingle with wanting to kiss Harry, wanting to feel the scrape of his transatlantic-flight stubble.

“I don’t have a key,” Harry says, lifting his eyebrow in mild accusation.

The “John Wayne” girls start, and Louis takes the screams and loud music as an opportunity to steal a small, heated kiss. He’s breathless after, and Harry’s pupils blaze dramatically. “Take me to yours, then,” Louis dares.

“Oh. My. Golly golly gosh,” someone says just behind them. Louis glances over. Unsurprisingly, it’s Liam.

“Hello Lime,” he says.

“ _This_ is the boyfriend you keep talking about?” Liam asks, staring at Harry like he’s star-struck, which he probably is. “ _Harry Styles?_ ” Louis hadn’t gone out of his way to avoid telling Liam about Harry, but Liam wasn’t really high on his priority list as far as personal updates went.

Harry goes tense under Louis’s hands. He looks around and then puts a hand up to cover one side of his face. Louis suddenly remembers the pictures he found on Google—pictures that had clearly been taken the night before, not three hours ago, when Harry was somewhere over the Rocky Mountains. “Shit, you’re not supposed to be here, are you?”

Harry shakes his head sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Lime, I don’t mean to be rude, but—” 

“How bad is it if you get spotted?” Louis asks urgently, preventing Harry from shooting himself in the foot with politeness.

Harry winces, pushing his mouth all to one side. It startles Louis, because he has started to make that same expression these past few months. Damn it. “Not the end of the world,” Harry shouts over blaring electric guitar.

“But not ideal?” Louis guesses. Harry nods, his face melting in gratitude. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Louis tries to lead Harry to the staircase, but people are _looking_. Just a handful of people, but at this rate, there’s going to be enough build up that a hundred people will be snapping pictures at the bottom of the stairs. Harry holds tight with a fist in the back of Louis’s top. They make it a few feet farther, and then Louis spots a familiar face behind the bar. He makes a split-second decision and shoves Harry past the swinging flap to the bar and onto the floor.

“Hey!” exclaims Niall, the beefy bartender who sometimes gives Louis free drinks, and always gives Zayn free drinks. “What the fuck?”

Louis holds a finger to his lips, hoping that Niall will stop staring at the grown-ass man on the floor by his feet and get back to distracting people with his pecs and his heavy whiskey pours and whatnot. Harry looks up at Louis, fairly disgruntled. Maybe it’s not such a nice thing to throw your boyfriend onto a sticky bar mat. But he had to, because now nobody can see him, unless they’re leaning over to look really hard.

Niall gets the message and rolls his eyes before turning to pour some beer and talk out of the corner of his mouth. “He can’t stay there all night,” he tells Louis, seeming pretty unfazed about the whole grown-ass man hiding behind his bar thing. “If it’s a bad ex thing, just get security.”

Louis’s jaw drops for a second. Niall really is a good guy. But he can’t get security. An armed escort is the opposite of what Harry needs. Harry needs to _blend in_.

_Oh._

Louis looks down at his boyfriend, who’s still looking up at him all disgruntled and _pretty,_ braced with his elbows behind him.

“I’ll be right back,” Louis hisses, and then runs to the stairs to look for Lauren. He needs makeup, and he needs it fast. He scans the crowd below for her beautiful wavy-haired head, but he can’t see her. He looks over the upstairs crowd, but it’s darker and he can’t see anything but pressed plaid shirts. He looks downstairs again, scanning for white spandex this time, wondering if maybe he should just ask one of the “John Wayne” girls who just finished up for their makeup. But he doesn’t _know_ them, and—

Then he sees a white crop top coming up the stairs towards him. His rush of hope is immediately drowned by frustration as he sees Anna’s blond midwestern self stumbling drunkenly along the handrail. God, she must have taken a lot of vodka shots after their show. He would have too, if he had been artistically responsible for that travesty.

Anna seems to be alone and in need of some guidance, and Lauren seems to have evacuated the dick-filled premises. Louis concludes that fate has brought him and Anna together on this night. He rushes down the stairs to meet her halfway. “Anna, do you have makeup?”

Anna’s highly made up face erupts into an impossibly exaggerated expression of ambiguous meaning. “Duh,” she says, spitting a little.

Louis braces his hand against her shoulder. “How about a dress?”

“It’s little and black,” she says coyly, flirting with him in that awkward way that she does to both him and Liam. He looks her up and down. She’s a pretty tall girl with some meat on her. Her little dress might just work.

“Fantastic. I need to turn someone into a drag queen, stat. Where’s your stuff?”

She points upstairs and starts walking. “Oh my god. Seriously? I was born for this!” she shrieks.

“What do you mean?” Louis asks, confused.

“I have watched every episode of Drag Race. _Twice_ ,” she tells him, sounding astonishingly sober all of a sudden.

They walk past the bar, where Louis only spares a single nervous and uninformative glance, and then to the back of the upstairs room where a pile of stuff is just waiting to be stolen. Seriously. Louis hopes there’s nothing expensive. He fiddles with the leg-line of his briefs against his tights, watching her rifle through some bags before finding her own. “I don’t actually need you to do the makeup. I just need the stuff.”

“No trust me, it’s totally fine! I got this,” she insists, digging through her bag.

“I—” Louis starts, about to defend his honor as a professional (as in paid, not certified) drag makeup artist. But then he remembers the last time he did makeup, which was when Harry had shyly asked for a practical demonstration of Louis’s makeup skills, and he’d straddled Harry on the floor and brushed makeup all over his face and told him how pretty he was until Harry’s cock started digging into Louis’s thigh, and Louis had had to put lipstick on himself and then get his lipstick all over Harry’s cock and balls, and then… Well, it had been a messy night.

He looks back to the bar, where he can only imagine Harry lying on the floor with his legs spread, waiting for someone to come save him. Him doing Harry’s makeup would not end well. Harry Styles in messy makeup walking out of a WeHo club with a visibly raging hard on would not make for a good headline.

“Okay, you can do it. But—!” Louis says as Anna finally stands up with an armful of fabric and makeup.

“Take me to her,” she demands dramatically, ignoring his stipulations.

Louis shakes his head in dismay, but he recognizes this is their best way out. He just needs to find out a way to tell her it’s Harry Styles without her making a scene about it.

On their way to the bar, they’re intercepted by Zayn and Liam, the latter of whom starts asking questions at too fast a pace for Louis to make out over the dulcet tones of “Poker Face.”

Zayn, who has known about his Harry Styles thing since before Louis even know who Harry Styles was, is being terribly unhelpful about reining in his would-be-boyfriend. Liam has said Harry Styles’s name so many times in the last thirty seconds that even Anna has picked up on it.

“You saw Harry Styles too?” She hisses. Louis internally sighs in relief. Maybe she’s the kind of person who wants to personally treasure celebrity encounters instead of causing a scene.

So Louis brings them all into a circle so that his voice doesn’t travel, and says, “Anna, I need you to dress Harry Styles in drag so he can escape from here unnoticed. No, it’s not a joke. Zayn, since this is your fault, I need you to get dolled up too, so he doesn’t stand out. And Liam… Liam, you just do you.”

Ignoring Anna’s quiet squeal, Zayn’s nonplussed “Sure,” and Liam’s “Oh my golly golly gosh,” Louis leads the pack through the crowd and to the bar. Niall raises his eyebrow at them all as they arrive, but continues to go about his business, using the one half of the bar where he has space to stand.

Liam and Zayn stand by the door flap while Louis kneels beside his boyfriend, who has literally fallen asleep on the bar floor of a noisy nightclub. “Harry,” he says, shaking him until his eyes open wide. He wakes up as easily as he falls asleep. “This is Anna,” he says, pointing to the girl kneeling beside him without daring to look at her probably frightening expression. “She’s going to do your makeup. We’re getting you in drag so you can sneak out of here. Just like _The Birdcage_.”

“What’s the birdcage?” Anna asks, clearly focusing on the important parts of this conversation.

Louis can’t bite his tongue all night. “You’ve watched every episode of Drag Race twice but you’ve never heard of _The Birdcage_?” he asks tersely, feeling very old and very gay indeed. But Harry is dressed like a grandpa and fell asleep on the floor of a gay bar, and he’s smiling warmly up at Louis like he’s in love with him, so it’s all right.

Harry’s eyes drop away to Anna, always so polite. “Like _Miss Congeniality 2_ ,” he offers.

“Oh,” Anna agrees, clearly understanding this foreign language that Harry is speaking.

“What?” Louis asks, incredulous.

Harry smirks up at him. “You’ve watched every episode of Drag Race twice but you’ve never heard of _Miss Congeniality 2_?”

“Just put on the dress,” Louis says testily, taking the dress from Anna and dropping it on Harry’s face. He feels quite old again, despite being only two years Harry’s senior.

“You don’t want to do it for me?” Harry has the nerve to ask, in front of Anna in the middle of a gay bar when he’s supposed to be in Spain.

Louis flicks his gaze over to see a shocking number of cogs turning in Anna’s brain. Oh well. He kneels down to whisper in Harry’s ear. “I’m not doing it, because I don’t want your dick to get so hard it can be seen from space. But I’ll take the dress off of you, later.” He doesn’t dare to look back, and leaves to stand guard.

“You’re relieved of duty, go make yourself pretty,” Louis tells Zayn, probably a little more rudely than he meant.

“I think he’s already pretty,” Liam points out.

“It was a joke,” Zayn and Louis say in unison. Some bonds never fade.

Liam and Louis stand guard while Zayn ducks under the bar counter to borrow some of Anna’s makeup and a compact. Louis really doesn’t want to look at what Anna is doing to Harry’s precious face, so he tries to keep his eyes pointed toward the dancers performing “Telephone”. They’re pretty good; it’s just that Louis thinks it’s a misstep to perform it on Lady Gaga night as though it’s a Lady Gaga song, rather than a Lady Gaga-and-Beyoncé song. It’s not Lady Gaga-and-Beyoncé night.

He tells Liam as much. Liam agrees. Liam is actually a pretty good guy.

“It’s been two years. You should ask Zayn out.”

Liam sputters dramatically, then goes silent.

“Liam, have _you_ seen _The Birdcage?_ ” Louis asks, thinking.

“Do you really think so?” Liam asks, clearly stuck on the first thing. The asking Zayn out thing.

“Yes, I do. Trust me, he’s all about the puppy-faced sweethearts. And eggplant.”

“You know, eggplant is actually relatively devoid of nutritional value, as far as vegetables go.” 

Louis laughs for the first time in a long time, really letting go for the first time since he realized Harry was uncomfortable. “Just ask him out, please. I’ll give you his number myself.”

Just then, three ladies stand up behind the bar: one in a white crop top and briefs, one in a leather jacket and jeans, and one in a little black dress. The crown around them makes some noise, but they’re all drunk and don’t find it nearly strange enough that two drag queens just popped out from behind the bar. Harry looks over at Louis, wide-eyed and ridiculous-looking in his pale makeup with dramatically colored eyeshadow. His curly hair is parted in the middle, combed into two frizzy piles like Queen Elizabeth the First. He has cheekbones that were never there before. Louis bites back a laugh, but he thinks Harry’s absolutely gorgeous.

Zayn exits the bar easily, glancing smoothly and seductively to the side as he passes Liam. His hair is all gelled back, and he’s dressed in his same old clothes, but he easily seems like someone who would be in the same crowd as the wobbly one with the frizzy brown curls and the wide green eyes.

Before leaving the bar, Harry leans over to plant a fat kiss on the cheek of Niall the bartender, leaving a big red mark. Louis can only imagine what a big kick Harry is getting out of that. Then Harry plants his chess-in-the-park cap right on Niall head. It’s actually a pretty natural look.

Then Harry gently grabs Anna by the wrist and pulls her into a big hug, which she returns excitedly. Louis can’t hear anything they’re saying, but he watches Harry pull Anna’s arm into his wool-and-silk vest, and then the other arm before tugging it tight over her shoulders so it drapes over her crop top. It’s actually not a bad look. Maybe Harry Styles is all right at dressing people who aren’t himself.

Harry stumbles over toward him. Louis has seen Harry look graceful in a dress many times, but this isn’t one of those times. He’s off kilter and bare-footed, and his makeup is probably reflecting light into his eyes in a blinding fashion.

“She made out with a girl once,” Harry informs him in his glorious, deep voice. “She told me.”

Louis brings Harry in for a deep kiss, because nobody’s going to notice Louis Tomlinson kissing a random club patron on a Wednesday night. He’s not that rich or famous. Yet.

Harry smells like makeup, but also like everything Louis has been craving for days. He just wants to be in Harry’s bed, with Harry’s smells all around him, with their legs tangled together, and Harry’s mouth all over him. “Take me home,” Louis whispers, watching carefully for the moment that Harry realizes he’s just referred to Harry’s house as his home. When it happens, Harry’s eyes sparkle greener than the emerald eyeshadow streaked halfway across his face.

Harry kisses him some more.

The four of them make their way down to the exit without so much as a second glance. When they step outside, Harry stops them after a few steps, looking down in wonder. “I’ve never walked on Santa Monica Boulevard with bare feet before!”

Louis looks in concern down at Harry’s knobby feet on the pavement, speechless. “I don’t think that’s on anyone’s bucket list, hun,” Zayn supplies.

“Where’s your car?” Louis asks, eager to get Harry off the street as soon as possible.

“Oh, I’ll call her,” Harry says, pulling his phone out of the front of his dress with a very happy flourish. He steps to the side to call his driver. Louis scans the ground for broken glass.

“You guys want a ride?” he asks Liam and Zayn, still looking at Harry’s feet.

“Nah, that’s all right.” There’s something suspicious about Zayn’s tone. Louis looks up and sees Zayn’s _head_ resting on Liam’s _shoulder_. “Liam asked me out. We’re g’nna go grab some shakes.”

Liam is blushing madly, rubbing his face into Zayn’s gelled hair like he can’t believe how lucky he is. “When did that happen?” Louis asks.

“While you were busy getting all that lipstick smeared all across your face.”

Well, that’s fair.

He clears his throat. “You know, shakes are actually relatively devoid of nutritional value…”

Harry interrupts him with, “She’s ’round the corner. Shall we? Are you two coming with?”

“No, they’re getting _shakes_.” Louis takes his boyfriend by the arm and starts walking him up the street to where Harry had pointed.

“Zayn must have really liked Lime shaking his hips in tight white briefs,” Harry comments cheekily.

“Ah, fuck, I forgot my track pants,” Louis suddenly remembers, stopping on the sidewalk to throw his hands up in the air.

“You look much better in tight white briefs than Lime does.”

“His name is Liam,” Louis sighs. “I only call him Lime because I’m mean.”

Harry grins at him as he walks backward, two feet ahead of Louis so he can look down at him. “If you’re so mean, then why are you about to let me blow you in the backseat of my car while you’re wearing that outfit?”

Louis tries not to react to that mortifying attempt at charm. Tries to remember that Harry’s feet are currently in danger and that the partition separating the backseat from the driver is not _that_ soundproof.

“Makeup makes you saucy,” he scolds.

Harry stops in his tracks, so that Louis bumps right into him. He slides his finger into the front of Louis’s briefs and snaps the waistband hard against his stomach. Louis gasps in shock, but Harry just smiles at him, lips bright red and salacious and he says, “Nah, baby, I was born this way.”

~~~

Louis stumbles into the kitchen, not sure what’s more obscene: his hard dick trapped in tight white spandex or the smear of lipstick and saliva that’s all over his stomach. Harry had tried to blow him in the car, but Louis’s stomach had grumbled and wouldn’t stop. Moved in sympathy, Harry spent the ten-minute drive kissing apologies all across his hungry, abandoned stomach.

“You’ve probably had no healthy food to eat all week,” Harry speculates, leading the way to the fridge. Louis wouldn’t mind that blowjob right about now, but it has been several hours since he’s eaten anything but pretzels, and he’s learned that Harry’s mothering streak is much easier to cede to than to resist.

So he sits his ass right on the sparkling granite countertop, fighting back a scream at how cold the stone is on his essentially bare thighs. He kicks his shoes off and leans back, waiting for Harry to turn around and see how obscene he looks in his white spandex and lipstick and saliva and _arousal_ , all splayed out on the granite countertop whose virtues Louis once extolled to Harry several months ago, with all of his clothes on. “ _The easiest to wipe clean_.”

“You’re right,” he agrees. Harry still doesn’t turn around. He’s bent at the waist, rifling through the drawers of his well-stocked fridge. The dress he’s wearing is short enough that Louis gets a good view of the boxer-briefs stretched tight across his ass.

“Probably ate nothing but disgusting cheese toasties,” Harry grumbles. He finally closes the fridge with an arm full of cheese and bread.

“Definitely.” He actually ate very well while Harry was gone, but only because he ate out for every meal. Still, there’s no point making Harry feel less important. 

“You need me to cook for you, make you good food,” Harry hums, putting butter in a pan and watching it melt.

“Absolutely. Need you to save me from my cheese toastie fate.”

He can only see one side of Harry’s painted face, but there’s enough dimple to indicate that Harry is smiling as he stacks bread atop cheese atop bread in the hot butter.

Once the cheese toastie is done, Louis diligently eats it while Harry gets down on one knee and mouths over Louis’s softened cock through his three-and-a-half layers of clothes. Louis can’t feel a thing. The cheese toastie is good though. 

“Missed you,” Louis says as he finishes licking the last of the grease off his fingers.

“Missed you, too,” Harry says to Louis’s cock. He drags Louis’s skidding thighs across the granite until he’s at the edge and then pulls Louis’s multiple waistbands down far enough to get it out. He sucks prettily at the head, getting his tongue all up in there, just like he’d _tried_ doing in the car. Louis’s cock experiences an abrupt revival of interest.

Two minutes in, there’s spit drooling all the way down his balls and beyond, pooling in places that make him itch and tickling the trimmed hairs that have been matted down for hours. Harry’s big hands are clutched around as much of his ass as he can reach with Louis pinned to the countertop, and Louis’s hole is twitching and wet, and it’s just—he wants—

“Do you want to fuck me?” he asks, all lilt and innocent accusation as if he isn’t the one whose idea it is. Harry sinks his mouth down dangerously low on Louis’s cock, eyes screwed shut and his whole made-up face so scrunched in anguish that some teeth graze the base, which thankfully counteracts the intense pleasure of the massage Louis’s cockhead is receiving from Harry’s throat. Louis wonders if Harry’s expression is due to an intense reluctance to release his mouthful or if it’s more that he’s so overwhelmed by the prospect of getting to fuck Louis’s ass again that he had to stuff himself full of whatever’s in reach just to prevent coming on the spot. The chances seem pretty even.

Ignoring the grease on his fingers, Louis grabs Harry’s brushed-out curls and pushes him away until his lips release Louis’s cock to fling spit onto his stomach, red and swollen and pathetic beside Harry’s equally red and swollen and pathetic mouth. “Do you want to fuck me?” he asks again, more directly.

Harry nods, even though he’s visibly staring at the bulging vein on the underside of Louis’s cock and licking the air shapelessly.

“Good.” In his least graceful move all night, Louis stiffly kicks his right leg out over Harry’s head to swing it around so he’s facing the counter—or at least he kicks out as far as he can with his thighs constricted by the briefs and tights he’s simultaneously shoving down. With a little wiggle, he gets his feet back on the floor and his elbows on the counter. Harry, ever the sentimentalist, stays where he’s kneeling to Louis’s left and tenderly pulls Louis’s clothes all the way down and slides them off his feet one at a time. “Get me ready,” Louis demands, glaring at the way his swollen cock keeps straining to brush against the cold granite like an idiot. 

His asshole is cold and exposed and clenching with waiting for Harry’s warm mouth, but salvation never comes. “I missed you, Louis,” Harry says reverently with his lips pressed to the side of Louis’s hip.

“Missed you too, darling,” Louis says. He kind of wants to make sappy eye contact and let all the feelings he’s feeling come out through his watery expression: feelings about how he knows Harry is _the one_ and it scares him until it doesn’t, because Harry beats him at his own game every time, counting their future babies and planning couples’ holidays in Jamaica and writing songs about finding the love of your life and generally acting excessive in a way that would concern Louis if he hadn’t met Harry’s mum, who seems delighted at her son’s choice in boyfriend and also quite normal.

On the other hand, Louis is enjoying not seeing Harry’s makeup, which he hadn’t realized was affecting his mood until it was gone, so he just spreads his legs a bit and rests his cheek on the cool stone, humming to himself, waiting for Harry’s mouth.

A few seconds later, a slick finger presses right in. Without a single thought, Louis gasps, arching back into the pressure, mind going enticingly blank at the depth.

Then he huffs in indignation as the finger pulls out. There’s a clanking of metal, and Louis opens his eyes to see Harry’s rings dropped onto the granite next to him. It’s obscene. He’s pretty sure he feels some precum leak out of him and onto the fucking kitchen floor. He’s going to get fucked. He’s going to get fucked with—

Wait. “What did you just put in me?”

“Er, my finger,” Harry says sheepishly. _Too_ sheepishly.

“Did you just put _butter_ inside me?” This is serious business, so Louis props himself up higher on his elbows and tries to crane around and glare at Harry, who dodges his gaze. Louis clenches his asshole, not sure if he’s trying to entice his disgusting boyfriend or try to feel with his very flesh whether dairy products have breached his body. 

“No!” Harry scoffs.

Louis stacks his hands and settles his cheek against them, appeased and ready to get fucked. But then he realizes he still doesn’t know why Harry’s finger slid in so smoothly. “What was it?!” he asks, fighting his panic by staring at Harry’s abandoned rings, which really only glitter tauntingly at him and don’t help his panic at all.

Harry’s _not_ suspiciously slick hand presses down on Louis’s back, which is actually quite sore, so it feels very nice. “Organic, virgin coconut oil,” Harry explains.

Louis is about to say some words, but then _two_ fingers slide in deep and twist perfectly, and Louis’s half sold on this whole virgin coconut thing. “Virgin?” he squeaks.

“Yeah,” Harry moans, fucking in and out of Louis’s ass in blindingly smooth, confident strokes. Louis forces himself to clench and relax, clench and relax around the pressure. It’s been a couple of weeks of inactivity, but only because Harry’s ass is so sweet and _easy_ for him that it’s difficult ever to resist. His eyes roll to the back of his head at how good Harry feels, touching him deep and gentle, always exploring. 

After three fingers, Louis decides it’s enough. “Do you have a coconut condom, too?”

Harry’s hand pulls out, and there’s a ruffling sound that goes on for too long. Louis turns his neck to look at where Harry is pressing his shiny and not-shiny hands across the bosom of his dress, feeling all over the empty space where once had been a mobile phone. Harry has nice tits. Louis admires them, as well as his dirty, shiny hand. It apparently gives Harry all the attention he requires for his charade, because he finally concludes, “I seem to have forgotten them.”

“Fine.” They’ve both been tested and absorbed one another’s come plenty of times; it’s just messy in a way that suits Harry better than it does him. Louis puts his forehead back down onto his hands and waits for Harry to fuck him and make a sticky, revolting mess of him. He’s desperate enough to want it. “Go on, then.”

When Louis feels the first bit go in, he feels prickling sweat break out in places he hasn’t sweat in all night, which is saying a lot. His vision altogether disappears and his limbs turn to static. He flattens out against the granite as if he can somehow sink deeper into the stone to achieve an even better angle, which he can’t.

Harry waits for permission. He always does. So Louis gives it to him, and then he’s full to the brim with cock. “There you go,” he pants, feeling the moisture of his breath become condensation on the countertop and then evaporate into humidity again. “Fuck me, _fuck_ me, yeah.”

Harry fucks him. Louis’s scalp tingles, and arousal crawls up and down his spine, but mostly low in his pelvis, where he feels more alive than he has in days.

“That’s it,” Louis encourages, second nature at this point. The silky material of Harry’s dress is bunched up right above his ass, spilling out across it gradually. Louis wonders if Harry can see the action at all, or if he’s just looking down at a dress splayed out across Louis’s ass with undefined sex happening underneath it. He suspects Harry would like that. He presses back to meet Harry’s every thrust.

Harry’s hands tight on his bare waist don’t stop Louis from bringing one knee up onto the countertop. He knows that Harry’s cock curves _just so_ , and it’s _so fucking good_ when Louis angles his hips right where he can feel it, right where he can get—

 _There_ it is. Louis sighs and goes still when he feels it: Harry’s cock fucking repeatedly into that perfect spot, harder and faster now, as if it feels better for _Harry,_ too, somehow. Louis wonders if it does. “Feel good, baby?” he asks, lips dragging across the wet granite. 

Harry groans in response, his rhythm suddenly slow and erratic.

“Don’t come yet,” Louis says. Harry’s fingers tighten on his waist, pulling the skin too tight and making Louis go dizzy with being wanted. “Gotta fuck me a bit more first. Make daddy come on your cock, _please_ , baby.”

Harry _throbs_ inside of him. Louis can feel it, and it drives him wild. He throws one of his hands back to slap down on Harry’s hip, to help drive him forward and just to _feel_ : to feel the dress bunched up around where their bodies meet and where Harry’s soft-hard muscles swell and clench to fuck Louis like he needs.

Louis’s weight is mostly on the table now, with his left leg half-suspended, half on tip-toe, dragging on the floor while he fucks back against Harry with his three other limbs. His biceps are burning, and his splayed right inner thigh is fucking killing him, but it’s so worth it, worth it to feel Harry deeper than he would get if left to his own devices. They go like that for several blissful, toe-curling minutes, and Louis never wants to move. He wants to get fucked like this forever. Until the cleaner comes and finds them in the morning. He doesn’t even care. He could die here. He could drown in a puddle of his own drool, choke on his own moans, get split open by Harry’s big, thick cock. 

Harry’s hips start _snapping_ , a deep arc of an angle that Louis wasn’t expecting, and that’s when Louis loses it. His idiotic cock comes all over the cold granite it has been dripping onto and grinding against for the past several minutes. Harry fucks more come out of him with every thrust, like he’s punching it out of his balls with each impact. Louis groans into the back of his own hand, feeling like all his spinal fluid and then some is dropping down to the cradle of his pelvis only to be sucked out through the tip of his cock.

It’s when Harry goes rigid-still inside him and starts filling him up with come that Louis suddenly remember the coconut oil. He wonders if his ass smells like coconut. Or Harry’s come. Or ass. God, he wore three layers of tight-fitting clothing while sweating all night, no wonder Harry didn’t want to put his mouth there.

But when Harry pulls out, he moves Louis’s listless, shaky body around until he’s flat on his back, feet propped up on the edge of the counter with one of Harry’s hands wrapped around each of his ankles. Carefully dodging any over-sensitive parts, Harry presses his mouth onto Louis’s ass and licks him clean, moaning pleasantly as he does it. Louis smiles smugly at the reddish glow of the overhead light without even opening his eyes, spreading his legs and riding Harry’s delectable tongue, picturing Harry bent over in his dress with his underwear around his shins. “You’re going to help me shower all that makeup off of me,” he declares, getting lost in just one gasp when Harry’s mouth spreads extra wide around his rim and more.

Harry hums his agreement around his suctioned mouthful of Louis’s flesh. “Yes, daddy,” he whispers, lips brushing against the pucker he’s absolutely ruined.

It’s another hour before they make it to the modern, custom-tiled, high-pressure shower. 

Granite really is the easiest to wipe clean. 


End file.
